A Striking Death (17 page)

fifty-one

Some folks probably thought a police officer’s life was interesting, even dramatic. They would think it was police chases and meeting interesting people every day, a life of glamour. And it could be, it was true, but not usually. Too often it was boring routine or dull paperwork or hours spent in the company of undesirables. Like right now, for example.

Bachman and his partner had been on patrol when they had received a call concerning a disturbance on Dunlop Street. Responding to the scene, they had found a man, clearly homeless, weaving along the pavement, muttering to himself and knocking over trash cans and newspaper boxes as he went. They had approached him carefully, found him to be under the influence of something – God knows what, these days it could be anything – and bleeding profusely from a wound on his hand. Paramedics had been called and the homeless man, suitably restrained, had been transported to Royal Victoria Hospital’s Emergency Department. Because he was violent, under the influence and a potential danger to himself, the paramedics and the hospital staff, his partner had travelled in the ambulance while Bachman followed in the cruiser. Protocol.

Protocol also dictated that he and his partner wait until the man was seen by hospital staff. Which was why he came to be standing in the hallway of Emerg, leaning against the wall and checking his watch for the tenth time. They were taking turns, one of them waiting in the tiny isolation room and one out in the corridor. They were waiting for the homeless man to be seen by the emergency room doctors, a wait that could stretch to many hours. It had been two already and he was thoroughly sick of it.

He saw the pretty ER nurse he knew slightly and stopped her. “Have you any idea how much longer it will be?”

She frowned. “Sergeant Tim, I have no idea. We’re really busy today.” She moved on briskly down the hall.

Sergeant Bachman sighed, crossed his arms and resumed his leaning against the wall. He craned his head to make sure everything was normal with his partner and the patient in the holding room, and then resumed his inspection of the people in the main waiting area. The nurse hadn’t been lying; the emergency department was jammed and there had been a stream of new arrivals in the last hour. As he watched, the double doors swished open and a young man entered. He was wearing a dirty toque even though the day wasn’t that cold. What caught Sergeant Tim’s eye was the slightly hunched over way the man was walking and the way he was favouring one side. He had obviously done something to hurt himself. He had on white sneakers.

An alarm went off in his head. Roll call. Young man. White runners. Injury to left side. Bent over. Severely wounded a cop. Might even be a cop killer by now.

The young man had his back turned as he approached the Admitting window. Sergeant Bachman unfolded his arms and moved purposefully forward.

fifty-two

Drumm’s phone woke him up. Groaning, he checked the time. He’d only been asleep for two hours. “Drumm.”

“We’ve got him.” It was Sue Oliver, satisfaction in her voice. “Thought you’d want to know right away. Barrie PD arrested Dick’s attacker. Matches the description we were given.”

“Good,” he said. “Who is he?”

“Matthew James Wilson, age twenty-three. One of Barrie’s officers was in a hospital waiting room and saw him come in for treatment. Wilson was in a bad way. Looks like he tried to fix himself up as best he could but he had a fever and a nasty looking wound. Dick clipped him pretty good. Bastard was in a lot of pain.” Sue Oliver sounded grimly satisfied. “He didn’t put up any fight and he’s already made a statement admitting he did it.”

“That’s good news, Susie.” He paused. “How’s Dick?”

“He’s doing better, Nick. They’ve upgraded his condition to ‘guarded’, whatever that means. Apparently while he’s not out of danger yet, he’ll likely pull through.”

“Thank God.”

“I’ll get up to Barrie shortly and pick Wilson up. He’s going to need some hospital treatment, although personally I’d just as soon let him die. Preferably slowly. Anyway, I wanted you to know.”

Drumm thanked her and hung up and then he called Lori. “Sorry to wake you. I wanted you to know, they’ve arrested Dick’s attacker.” He gave her the rest of the details.

“Thank goodness.” Lori yawned. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not enough. By the time I got home and looked after Will, then Sue’s call…”

“You’re good to that dog, Nick.”

“How about you? Well-rested, fresh as a daisy?”

She laughed. “Sure. I think I’ll skip the bike ride today, though. That’s two days in a row.”

Drumm hesitated, then said, “Lori, the other thing…Emily’s moved out.”

There was a pause. Then she said, “Oh. When did that happen?”

“I got home this morning and all her things were gone. And she just left Will here by himself, no food, no note, no nothing.”

“Oh.” There was a pause like she didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I was just surprised. And pissed that she left Will to fend for himself. We’d had a disagreement but I didn’t think she’d just leave.” He stretched. “But now I just feel…relieved.” He cleared his throat. “Geez, sorry, here I am unburdening myself on you again.”

“It’s okay, Nick.” There was silence and he could hear some background noises. “I’m getting ready now and I’ll be at the station as soon as I can.”

“Right, see you shortly.”

“Nick? I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” And he wasn’t.

fifty-three

“He was taken off the observation detail when Dick was knifed. Everybody was called in. All hands on deck.” Drumm was explaining to Lori that the uniformed officer assigned to watch bartender Craig Buleman’s building had been taken away. “So we don’t know if he’s at home or not. He’s still not answering his phone.”

“I’ll get over there and hammer on his door,” said Lori. She picked up her tea to take with her. “You’re going to work down the list?”

“Yes, principal number two. Ellen Clarke. Principal at Prince Albert Senior Public when Arthur Billinger was there.”

Lori was at the door. “Meet for lunch?”

Drumm smiled. “I’d like that. But let’s see how it goes. We’ll talk later.”

Caswell Street was in an older part of the city and Craig Buleman’s building had seen better times. Lori looked up at the dirty grey brick with the rusting metal balcony railings and cringed. Many of the tenants used the balconies as extra storage; she could see bicycles, dead plants, old furniture and ancient barbecues. She was glad she didn’t live in a dump like this.

The call system appeared to be broken but she was able to gain access when a young woman pushing a baby stroller left the building. Lori politely held the door for her and then made her way in and up to the twelfth floor. The hallway smelled of onions and something else she couldn’t identify, the walls needed a paint job and someone had put an interesting mark in the door of number 1203.

Lori knocked just below the gouge, and then pounded with her fist. The door quivered under her assault. The door of the next apartment over opened and a young woman peered out. Lori showed her badge and said, “YPS. Just routine business. No need to worry. Do you know if there’s anybody home here?”

“No clue.” The woman shut the door hastily.

Lori sighed and went back to pounding on the door. “York Police Services! Open up!” She’d been pounding for some thirty seconds and her hand was beginning to hurt when the door opened on a chain. She could see an unshaven face and an eye looking at her.

              “Craig Buleman?” She put her badge in front of the eye. “Open, please. I need to talk to you.”

              “Yeah, a minute.”

The door closed and then reopened immediately. Lori saw an earring, tattoos down one arm, a scrawny hairy chest and saggy pajama bottoms. Too saggy.

“Get dressed, please, Mr. Buleman. Put some clothes on. I’ll wait.”

Buleman looked down, and then said, “Sorry, I was sleeping. Late night. Be right back.”

He disappeared into a bedroom and Lori moved into the living room. She walked past a couch and chair, both covered with DVDs and video games and a TV set up to play them. She went over to the window and stared out at a view of three other apartment buildings, all similar to the one she was in, and their attached parking lots. It was an overcast day again and the bleakness of the view wasn’t helping her mood.

“What’s this about?” Buleman had come out of the bedroom; he was dressed in blue jeans and a white tee-shirt with a grinning green frog on it; his feet were bare. Lori looked him over carefully. The earring was in the right ear and it was a simple gold hoop, the tattoos were a dragon and a knight and it was difficult to see what else in the available light. The face was young and friendly, the hair brown and hanging in his eyes. He still needed a shave. He looked hung over.

Lori showed Buleman the photos of Arthur Billinger and Daniel Levine. “It’s about these men. I understand you know them?”

Buleman brushed the hair out of his bleary-looking eyes and leaned forward to get a good look. “Oh, those dudes again. Deanie showed me them last night. At least I think it was last night.” He rubbed his face. “That’s the two faggots that were killed, right?”

“Do you suppose we could sit somewhere?” Lori waved at the furniture.

“Yeah.” Buleman slowly moved all the junk off the chair and couch and sat heavily on the end of the sofa. “My head hurts.”

Lori was unsympathetic. “These two men were brutally murdered, Mr. Buleman. We’re looking for their killer. Your bartender friend, Dean, said you had noticed someone watching them.”

Buleman stared at her. “I think so, yeah.”

“You think so? Or you did? Which is it?”

Buleman put his head back on the couch to stare at the ceiling. Then he looked at Lori. “I saw someone watching them, yeah. Scoping them, like.”

“When was this?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

Lori wrote in her notebook. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know, just a dude.”

Lori sighed. The man was an idiot but at the moment, the only decent lead they had. She had to play nice with him. “Young? Old?”

“Young, then. Yeah, like in his twenties. Thirties, maybe.” Buleman looked doubtful. “I’m not so good with ages.”

Lori doubted this man was good with anything except drinking but all she said was, “You’re doing fine. Was he a businessman type? You know, suit and tie?”

Buleman shook his head. “No, just a regular dude.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I don’t know – clothes. Not dressed up, though.”

“Was he bald? Did he have an earring?”

“What? Bald? No, I don’t think so. Might have had an earring.” Buleman looked doubtful.

What a waste of time this was, thought Lori. “Height? Weight? Hair colour?”

Buleman looked at her helplessly.

“Okay, let’s try this,” said Lori. “When Dean asked you if you’d seen anybody watching these two men, you said you had. And you just told me he was ‘scoping’ them out. Think back, close your eyes, what did you see? Why did he attract your attention?”

Buleman closed his eyes and looked like he was going to fall asleep, but then he opened them and said, “It was the stare. And the muscles.”

Lori leaned forward. “Go on. What do you mean, the stare?”

“Yeah, he was staring at them. Over his beer. He was kind of leaning forward with his arms on the table and the look on his face was weird. In…” Buleman was searching for the right word.

“Intense?”

“Intense, yeah, that’s it. Intense.”

Lori was making notes. “Good. And the muscles? What do you mean by that?”

“He had huge arms, and he had on a tee-shirt. He was all muscles.”

So this clown had proved helpful after all. “So you saw a man in his twenties with muscular arms staring at the two victims.”

“He only did it for a few seconds. And then he sat up and was just normal, looking around the bar.”

“But when he was staring at them….?”

“He looked like trouble.”

Lori tried asking for some more details and they went over the story again but it was apparent that Buleman knew nothing more.

fifty-four

It turned out that Ellen Clarke lived in the same retirement community as William Donnelly. Different street, but the same kind of condo unit. It was an interesting coincidence, Drumm thought.

He remarked upon it when Arthur Billinger’s former principal opened her door to him.

“Billy! Oh yes, he’s the reason we moved to the Briar Patch. He and his wife moved here first and raved about it. So then my husband and I decided to try it. All in all, it’s worked out well for us. It was the golf membership that sealed the deal for us. Mark – that’s my husband - is out playing right now.” She shivered. “Brrr! It’s way too chilly for me. He likes to get his money’s worth, though.”

Ellen Clarke was a cheery woman, somewhat overweight. Her hair was short and brown – surely it was dyed, as she appeared to be in her sixties – and she was considerably shorter than Drumm.

“Some coffee, Detective Sergeant?”

“Thank you, no. I’m here about the murder of one of your former teachers, Arthur Billinger. You were principal at Prince Albert Senior Public when he was there, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“He was there for three years, and so were you, I gather. Do you remember him? It was a long time ago now.”

“Of course I remember him, Detective Drumm. I remember all my colleagues.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, not at all.” Ellen Clarke was sitting on her sofa in the living room with her legs crossed and her hands together on her knees. “Still, I was shocked and upset to hear about his death. It was such a brutal thing. And that other man too: the paper is saying the two deaths are linked.”

“Brutal it was,” said Drumm. “It’s the reason I’m here, of course. We are trying to establish why someone would want him dead. Can you think of anyone at Prince Albert who hated him? Any parents, or students, or other staff?” Drumm watched carefully for her reaction.

Ellen Clarke’s pleasant face was frowning. She had a network of wrinkles around her eyes, Drumm noticed. “It was a long time ago, of course,” she said. “And like I said, I didn’t know him well. He was pretty quiet. But I don’t remember anything like that.” She paused. “I’m trying to think if any parent ever came into the office about him, but I don’t think so. Have you looked in his file?”

Drumm said, “There’s nothing there. How about his relationships with the staff? You knew he was gay, I’m sure. Did he ever get involved with any of the other teachers? Or the custodian?”

“If he did, I didn’t know about it.”

“How about the students?”

Ellen Clarke sat up straight. “You mean did he come on to them?
That
I would have known about, for sure. There was nothing like that.”

Drumm was once again getting nowhere and he knew it. “What kind of teacher was he?”

“He taught French, you knew that, right?” At Drumm’s nod, she went on, “Prince Albert is a senior public school. All the kids are in grades six, seven and eight.” She smiled. “It makes for an interesting mix of hormones and testosterone. His job was to do FSL on rotary, a tough assignment. He was strict and good at the job. He had to be, you know, in order to survive.”

Drumm sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve been wasting your time. I know this was ten years ago now and more. We’re having a tough time getting a good picture of this man. Do you remember any of the teachers there who might have been friends with him? He had a group of retired teachers from Addison Road that he met with on Tuesday mornings. I’m wondering if he made any close friends at your school while he was there.”

Ellen Clarke shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. If I ever knew.”

A thought had been nagging at Drumm. It had something to do with the dates. “1999-2002,” he said. “Those were the years Billinger was at your school. Wasn’t there a teacher strike sometime in there?”

The principal stared at him. “There was. You have a good memory, Detective Drumm. It was in September, 2001. It didn’t last long, thank goodness. But what of it?”

Drumm had been on strike once himself. It had been a bad experience. He still remembered the uncertainty of not knowing how long it would last, carrying an embarrassing picket sign, the abuse hurled at the striking teachers from passing motorists. Most of all he remembered how wearing it had been on his legs, marching back and forth on hard concrete sidewalks for his three hour shift. “When teachers are on strike, they walk up and down outside the school. They’re almost always in pairs.”

Ellen Clarke stared at him. “You’re right. But what’s your point, Detective?”

“I’ve been on strike myself. I was a teacher once. And I still remember marching on the sidewalk carrying a sign. I was usually with the same guy.” His name had been Reggie Turner and they had spent many unhappy hours pounding the pavement together. They had learned a lot about each other in that time. “I was just wondering if you remembered the experience yourself.”

“Of all things!” She was looking at him oddly. “I
do
remember it quite well, actually. I was usually beside Hildi, my vice-principal. We had a lot of time to gossip.”

“And Arthur Billinger…?”

She laughed. “He was usually with Sarah Smillie. They were a bit of an odd couple, that’s why I remember. He was a serious man and her name was Smillie – it was funny! And then there was the fact that he was a wily old French teacher and she was young and just starting out. Oh, and she was short, and he was tall. He looked like Vincent Price, did you know?”

“I’ve been told there’s that resemblance, yes.” Drumm was pleased. At least he had a name, someone who might know something. “Is Sarah Smillie still with the school district?”

Ellen Clarke smiled. “I have no idea. I lost track of her a long time ago. But you surely don’t think she killed him, Detective?”

He said, “No, of course not.” But she might know who did.